


the day the moths died

by connorsmarkus (neganstonguething)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Apocalypse, Character Death, Enemies to Lovers, Graphic Sex, Lots of confusion, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Probably More - Freeform, Some Humor, references to alchemy, some pretty bloody scenes, this fic is heavy on information, though it's not to any of the main characters, though the enemy part is one-sided
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 19:16:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18817300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neganstonguething/pseuds/connorsmarkus
Summary: Two decades following the aftermath of a worldwide pandemic, the wrecked economy and population are recovering. Artificial humans act as placeholders for jobs and other important matters. These humans are referred to as 'moths'.But something happened. One of them decided he's had enough.And Connor has to stop him.





	the day the moths died

**Author's Note:**

> I got about halfway through the fish lives in the end and started brainstorming this fic. Someone prompted me on Tumblr for an 'apocalypse au', and this immediately came to mind. I'm super excited about this, though progress on this one will be extremely slow while I work on my other projects. However, this is going to be one of my biggest works yet. I'm thrilled to show you guys what I've come up with.
> 
> The first chapter is an introduction, so it's short. This work is almost a whole world on its own. I've put a lot of thought into it, so please let me know what you think! As for some of the terms in this chapter, they will be explained in chapters to come, I promise!

_“What the Caterpillar calls the end of the world the master calls a butterfly.”_

  * _Richard Bach_



 

The weather for the past week has been an endless prediction—a loud calling card for rain that Mother Nature doesn't seem keen on claiming. The clouds loom not far above in dusky gray and the moisture hangs thick in the air, threatening rain that doesn't seem to want to come.

At the very least, Connor hopes the rain holds off until he and Hank are done with their investigation. As the Lieutenant's second-in-command, Connor has been sent out with him to follow up on reports of a suspicious character in the neighborhood. Some have even claimed it's Atlas, himself.

Atlas. The most famous insect of them all. The leader of a movement people everywhere are calling a _rebellion_. The one who initiated a process that has brought population restoration to a screeching halt. The biggest threat to humankind.

People are on edge. Connor and Hank and many of their fellow realignment officers have been called out on claim after claim of Atlas sightings. Sometimes, it's a stray cat in the street. Others, it's a man lingering for too long in one place.

But Fowler is stressed, and every claim has to be taken seriously. The human race is at stake.

Moths, they're called. Insects, by some. Replicas of humans, utterly man-made, but with their own beating hearts and personalities. Designed to facilitate reproduction, but not to exist as humans do, they have always viewed humans as a threat to them on some level. Most obey without question out of fear, but in light of Atlas’ appearance, a great many of them are deciding to fight back.

The end result is a group of insects fluttering stupidly around a light they'll never quite reach, because it was never made for them in the first place.

The rebellion didn't start until Atlas proclaimed himself the leader of the moths. Their defender, and eventually, their guide into the free world.

Population decline is at an all-time high. Humans need the moths to fill gaps left by a life-shattering pandemic that had taken near a third of the world’s population. Named after species of moths that don't eat or drink because their sole purpose is to aid in reproduction, they should be nothing more than that.

But apparently, Atlas wishes to prove otherwise.

Moths are born with tracking devices, affectionately named Birthmarks, that are located in various places on their body. Atlas lost his signal the same day he revolted. Other moths are learning to do the same.

Naturally, he's a threat.

So whether or not Connor and Hank wish to spend their evening searching around for a pesky moth who was probably not even here in the first place, they have no choice.

Selfishly, Connor uses the promise of a promotion as reassurance to keep going.

“Looks like we're gonna come up empty again…” Hank grunts from nearby as he downs a big swallow of the whiskey in his flask. “Fuckers probably saw a squirrel or some shit.”

“We can't be sure, though,” Connor thinks aloud as he pulls a pallet away from its position propped up against an alley wall and peers behind for any sign of a crawlspace. “You're not supposed to drink on the job.”

“Nobody asked you to lecture me,” Hank grunts, and Connor just rolls his eyes. At the very least, the Lieutenant is still helping out. He doesn't seem to be doing much from the outside other than looking around, but Connor can tell by the way his brow furrows that he's using his keen eyes to spot anything out of the ordinary.

The entirety of the central precinct knows Hank has perception abilities far beyond any of their own. As a child, he entertained himself for years on visual puzzles, learning to see what is normally not visible to the naked eye. His incredible ability to spot clues in any situation has helped him climb up the ranks for years. Before he was tasked with collecting the rogue moths, he was a celebrated officer and is still famous for a major drug bust during his earlier days.

So no, Connor never reports his drinking habits. But Hank is also his closest friend. As such, he has every right to lecture him.

“Do you see anything?” Connor questions noncommittally, shining the silvery beams of his flashlight down the alley. There's nothing immediate, save for the flickering of whiskers in the light as a black cat hops down from a dumpster at the end of the alley.

“I see a lot of nosy ass people watching,” Hank responds, irritable, as he follows Connor into the alley. “But not a damn sign of a moth, let alone Atlas.”

“Jesus,” Connor sighs in frustration. “Fowler's going to give us another earful if we come back empty-handed.”

He usually does. Connor and Hank find themselves in his office, reminded repeatedly how important this investigation is. They hum out their understanding of his words until he either gets tired of talking or feels he got the point across, and then they go out drinking together.

Hell, Connor gets more wasted sometimes than Hank.

Tonight might be shaping up to be one of those nights…

“Wait.”

Hank's voice isn't urgent. It's pensive, and Connor quickly turns to regard him. He stares off into space for a few moments, and then sighs.

“Fuck it, let's go get something to eat. We're not finding shit tonight.”

Connor wants to argue, but he also knows that Hank is probably right. If he hasn't spotted anything, there _isn't_ anything. Plain and simple. Connor trusts his judgment.

Connor is climbing into the driver's seat of their vehicle when he sees it. A flicker of something a block or so ahead. It isn't anything definitive, but Connor somehow _knows_ it's important. It pulses inside him like a second heartbeat and makes him feel a sensation reminiscent to anxiety.

He ejects himself from the car, and Hank is already looking at him.

“What the hell are you waiting for?!” the Lieutenant demands. “Go fucking get them!”

The reason Hank and Connor work together so well is because of their dynamic. Hank is the eyes and Connor is the chase. He's quick and agile. His athletics are what got him where he is. He's smart and perceptive too, but his speed and quick thinking are why he works alongside Hank now. They could both be talented detectives on their own, but their dynamic is why they're so powerful today.

Connor doesn't even nod. He just takes off. He quickly learns that whatever sense of intuition had lured him toward the next block was right. In an instant, he's chasing someone down the street.

That someone sports a long brownish-gray overcoat and calf-high boots with dark gray pants tucked into them. The collar of the coat is tall and covers up his entire neck. From behind, Connor can only see that he has very short, likely buzzed dark brown hair. He’s just about half a block away, but Connor is catching up to him very quickly.

The next thing he learns is that the man he's chasing knows what he’s doing. Said man makes no hesitation in jumping atop the hood of a moving car. The driver slams on their brakes in the middle of the street and honks their horn, but the man pays them no mind. He hops over the other side of the vehicle and keeps running.

Connor withdraws his gun and sprints around the rear of the car, before he takes off at full speed. “Stop! Detroit Police!”

The man doesn't seem to care, which isn't anything new to Connor. If the perpetrator runs off, they usually don't intend to cooperate. But Connor wants to make sure this man knows he's not out of the woods, yet.

Across another street, Connor loses sight of his target, but he instantly realizes it isn't over. He stops and glances around fiercely, and that intense pulsing sensation returns. It vibrates in his head and chest in sudden, violent increments.

He looks up and startles visibly. Crouched atop a ledge over a storefront is the man. He seems to be peering down at Connor from above, as if he isn't worried about the fact that he's being chased. The shadows from the clouds and the dark night sky play in his favor, obscuring his eyes from view. Connor notices, however, that the man is wearing a dark cloth mask over his nose and mouth.

The man stands upright again and jumps down, catching the ledge with his hands and then releasing for a lower landing. He casts a glance to Connor and starts running again, veering around a corner.

Connor realizes he's being led somewhere.

Against his better judgment, he follows.

“I said stop!” he orders, but the man doesn't heed his warning.

Either way, Connor speeds after him around that corner. He veers into what looks like the open doors to an old apartment complex, and Connor follows him inside. Hank isn't within earshot. Connor has likely lost him in the trail. But he knows Hank will meet up with him soon enough, so he keeps running.

What’s in this complex? Connor is well aware of the possibility that he might be running right into a trap, and there’s also the chance that this man is bringing him in here to get him off his trail. But this is the closest to an actual, viable lead that he’s come in weeks, so he’s going to be reckless about it. Connor makes the mental note to consider it himself applying his training for the first time in weeks, and speeds into the apartment after the man.

The place hasn’t been inhabited in years, it looks like. Possibly decades. There’s a rusty wheelchair a few yards into the corridor, and the reception desk and floors are riddled with dust and yellowed papers. A big lobby greets them, but the man directs Connor around to a hallway off to the right. It looks like a set of double doors once existed there, but both of them are missing.

The doorway leads to a stairwell, and the man running ascends them with seemingly no exhaustion. He takes them two and three at a time, and as the stairs curve around in their ascent, Connor’s target hops up and catches a rail, vaulting himself over it.

Jesus, this guy is insane. Connor speeds up the stairs, skidding around the curve, and takes the next flight two steps at a time. His lungs burn for air and his legs are on fire, but he keeps going.

One flight becomes two, and two becomes three. By the third, Connor is gasping for breath. He stops for a few seconds, slumping against the rail, and peers up. His target is a good flight and a half up, and it looks like there are several more before they reach the top. However, the top seems to be his destination. At the very least, Connor will continue up the stairs and follow any trail the man may have left.

If he’s being led, that won’t be too difficult. If he’s not, he’ll have a location and some evidence to go off of, which is more than he’s had in a long time.

He uses that information to validate taking ten seconds to breathe, and then starts up the stairs again.

When Connor reaches the top, he realizes that he’s climbed six flights of stairs. This apartment complex has six floors. He’s been led six stories up, probably to be distracted off the trail. Whoever he was pursuing knew he was going to get exhausted and give up, but if the guy’s made up of any normal human respiratory and musculoskeletal system, Connor knows that he has to be tired, too. He’s got to be up here somewhere. Connor can’t have just wasted his time and energy pursuing someone who’s powerful beyond human limits.

Even if it _is_ Atlas, he’s still a moth. He’s still an artificial human. He still has basic human lung capacity and endurance. He can’t have gone far.

At the top, the door to the roof hangs wide open, and Connor can feel the wind on his face as he breaches it. The night sky greets him, cloudy and looming and even more threatening of rain than it had been before the chase had begun.

Thunder rumbles as Connor walks on shaky legs out onto the roof. This level spans wide, probably a few hundred feet, but even from the roof entrance, Connor can see his target standing there. Said target stands on the concrete edge of the roof, faced away, seemingly peering down over onto the ground below. As Connor draws closer, he can’t stop himself from admiring the way the man looks on his perch, with his long coat billowing in the wind and his arms relaxed at his sides. He looks like he owns this place, and maybe he does. If he really _is_ Atlas, it could be argued that he owns much of the city of Detroit—maybe more than that.

“You’re at the end of the line,” Connor states firmly, even around the way his lungs are still begging for air. His voice is breathy, but sure. He’s not about to let this guy go. He raises his gun once more as he approaches, shaky, exhausted fingers working desperately to steady the gun in his grasp.

The man doesn’t move at first, but after a while, he pivots and turns to face Connor.

At the ten-foot mark, Connor stops, gun still raised, and takes in the sight of his target. This man certainly fits the description of Atlas—bright eyes, one blue and one green, dark, freckled skin, roughly six feet in height.

But it’s the presence that tells Connor this is his guy. He gives off a certain energy, with his squared shoulders and piercing gaze and an expression that tells Connor he hasn’t won even though he’s got the guy cornered.

“Step down from the ledge,” Connor orders, his hands steadying around his gun. He narrows brown eyes at the other man. “I don’t want to shoot you. You’re under arrest—just accept it.”

The man raises both eyebrows, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t even look a little afraid, which somehow irritates Connor, who advances another couple of steps.

In Connor’s career, he has documented maybe three unforgettable moments. The first was when he passed his academy exam and officially became a police officer. The second, when he was promoted to second Lieutenant to work alongside Hank. Third, when he was assigned to realignment and he and Hank made the news as the first officers on the team.

This one qualifies as the fourth, and it happens in slow motion. Connor notices the way the supposed Atlas’ eyes crinkle, and he knows beyond the tiniest shadow of a doubt that the leader of the moths is smiling behind that mask. As he smiles, the man swings his arms out into the air at his sides, spreading them wide like they’re his own wings. And then, he falls backward, his coat moving to engulf his form while he disappears over the edge.

Connor dives for the edge to stop him, but it’s too late. He’s slumped over the concrete, gaping down at the ground below.

And Atlas is nowhere to be seen.

“Damn it!” Connor curses aloud as he moves to stand up. “ _Shit_!”

“What the fuck happened!?” Hank sounds like he’s gasping for breath, where Connor sees him on the ground level. Even from six stories up, he can see the look of panic and exhaustion on his face.

“I…I lost him!” Connor calls over the edge, before he steps back. When he turns around and starts back for the stairwell, he realizes he has a lot to think about.

Like why Atlas took the time to lead him here. Was he trying to convey a message? Or was he just making a statement for how unattainable he is?

Son of a bitch…

**Author's Note:**

> As always, kudos, comments, and bookmarks are much appreciated! I love you all!


End file.
